As I Am
by Sarela Jade
Summary: Acceptance had been his only desire, but it was a want and need fulfilled too late. In the end, it was in her arms he wished to die. Erik/Meg, entirely Leroux-based.


_**Author's Note:**_ Hello, everyone! :) It's been awhile since I posted anything on here (Real Life has been SO hectic these past few months), but I discovered this Erik/Meg 'fic that I wrote awhile ago, just never posted due to lack of time to edit. But after some careful editting, I decided that it was good enough, grammar and spelling-wise, to post. My computer did go haywire, however, recently, and screwed up the order of most of my stories, so this entire fic was nothing but gibberish and full of weird symbols when I first opened it a few weeks ago, with random sentences and paragraphs spewed all over the place. I managed to get everything back in order and rewrite the bits that got deleted (or at least I think so) but if you see any parts that seem jumbled, or if you see any apostrophes (I totally spelled that wrong) or commas missing, please let me know. :) Thanks! :) I hope you all enjoy it. :D

_As I Am_

Candlelight flickered radiantly, harsh light stung the darkness. Mists coiled about the icy home, black waters rippled against the water's edge. Lavish furnishings, cold treasures and antiques were blanketed in a heavy fog.

By warmth no longer quenched, staccato whispers flooded the house and drifted over the lake… murmurs, tears silently fell… in silence, where music was yet unheard. Melodies had ceased their chant, notes had gone unwritten. Beloved music, once known to last forever, had faded.

A stiff whisper alerted her and she raised her head, seated on the settee of the drawing room. Entwined in death's embrace, she gazed into sickly eyes, ugly pools purged of hatred. Just weakness and dying power glinted in those unreadable eyes.

Decayed, crippled hands clutched her pale fingers, energy nearly lost, savoring the gentle contact. Frail breaths escaped from in between his marred, slightly parted lips. Inaudible mutters pierced the silence.

A frown hung on her lips, warm tears sparkled in her eyes. "Master?" she asked tenderly. Silence. "Master," she said again, squeezing his hand.

"M-Meg?" he asked, and sighed. "Leave me. J-Just leave… me…" his eyes flickered angrily. "You foolish child, why m-must you s-stay?"

She shook her head, inching closer. "I will not leave you now, Master. I cannot."

Erik heaved a broken sigh, letting his head fall back. He breathed hoarsely, muttering silently. Struggling to hide her tears, Meg bit her lower lip, her small hand against his jaw. "You mustn't…"

"You have accepted my repulsion - or so you have said," he stated slowly. "If you can accept nothing else, accept my dying breath. Accept this corpse whose heart bleeds, without end."

Meg gazed at him earnestly then, silent pleas etched onto her face. "What can I do, m-my… my _darling_?" she spoke the word hesitantly, fresh, new, and glimpsed around, removing her hand, a gap arising between them. "How can I—"

"Stay," Erik said, swiftly reaching up and grasping her fingers.

Her misted eyes fell upon him again, and she replied somberly, "al right." She delicately entwined her fingers with his.

Meg remembered that single word. Stay. She had stayed. Stayed so many times. After he had been abandoned, left alone in the shadows, she had ventured through the gruesome catacombs, her trail a mere memory of the ghostly tales of the Opera Ghost, of stories and fables her mother had told her of the infamous, unseen genius. In the chilled, icy house on the lake, beyond the trap doors and various catches, guided by the warnings of her mother, she had found him - a putrefying carcass rotting slowly. He had been beyond treatment - he had been close to death. And so she had stayed, fear dissolving and turning to mutual respect, forging a strange friendship, and then a fading glimmer of a love that had never been and yet always was.

Cautiously, tentatively, Erik sighed and gently leaned his head back against the settee, turning his head to the side, so that his massive lips barely brushed her shoulder.

Meg cringed, but hardly stirred.

Soundlessness soon devoured the last shreds of life and melody.

Hands turned quarter around the clock, chiming, turning.

And she waited, breathlessly, closing her eyes and leaning the back of her head against the cushions, her sweaty hand still grasping his.

The ghost watched her weakly as she began to doze, her drifting dreams unseen by his eyes.

Before long, she regained dreary consciousness, alarmed by the silence that had prevailed. She sat up and stared at him, wishing, hoping. "Master," she said urgently, clutching his hand. "Master."

He mumbled something, and tiredly opened his eyes.

"Meg," he whispered.

"Master," she repeated.

The ghost sighed, swallowing.

"You love the music," he rasped. He raised a shaking hand and faintly touched her thin lips. "I am the music." A pause. "I am Erik."

Meg smiled slowly. "Erik," she echoed, and brought her fingers to touch his hand, pressing them to her lips. She closed her eyes, unable to endure the sadness in his stare. "I do," she murmured, clasping his hand. Dark blue eyes met repulsive yellow. "I do love you."

"How can you speak of such a monstrosity as love?" he whispered. "When I cannot even comprehend its horror?"

"There is no horror," she answered him, observing his unmasked, revolting, mottled facial features she had grown to accept. "If you wish there to be none."

He sighed, his voice trembled. "Ah," he said. Tiny tears brewed in the corners of his eyes, withered fingertips running along her smooth cheek. "How I wish there to be only perfection. No horror, nor dismay."

He gasped, breathing heavily, a choked sob catching in his chest.

"Mas--" but she blushed and hastily corrected herself. "Erik. Please. You cannot leave me," she whispered quietly. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks. "I don't want you to leave me…"

His now fragile hand, a magnificent tool of inhuman dexterity, raised and weaved along her shoulder. "A-And do you t-t-think it fair to me to wish to stay, Meg?"

"I do," she said, and turned, covering his fingers with her own, stopping their cautious pursuit along her cold flesh. "I can't accept it, Erik," she whimpered, her face crumpling. Her pitch escalated, and he calmly raised a hand, a gesture to stop her, but then he thought better of it and lowered his hand. "Oh, my word, I just can't accept it!" she said.

His fingers untangled from hers and slid into her hair, scraping it back from her forehead. "You must," he said, a fierce fire adorning his eyes. "Y-You have known it for some time now, Meg." With an exhausted sigh he slumped against the settee, catching his breath, turning his face away. "No mortal lives forever."

"But angels are eternal," she said.

He laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that sounded like a cry.

"I am no angel."

"I know," she sniffled.

Several soundless moments passed.

"Erik…" she tried when she noticed how still he had become, how slow his chest was rising. "Erik?"

"M-M…" he muttered.

"Erik," she said again, more urgently, and clasped his shoulders, trying to stare into his dim eyes, his head drooping.

"Dance," he mumbled so softly, so inaudibly, that she had hardly heard him. The last flicker of a flame in his eyes sparkled, and he rasped, "d-dance when I leave, when I depart… am-mong an audience, dance… and…" His voice grew peaceful, eerily calm and content. "J-Just know that you have given me wings to fly."

And suddenly his eyes rolled back in his head, and he sunk completely against the settee.

Little Meg sobbed, her features contorting in great pain.

"Oh," she moaned brokenly, slowly easing her arms around his shoulders and burying her head in his foul shoulder, sobbing dreadfully. "Oh… Erik…"

Agonizingly long moments crept before she chose to move, to think, to feel.

Hours, days, perhaps.

"Oh," was all she could say, for all words had run dry on her tongue, as she pulled away.

His shell was indeed empty, gone, an easily broken case of bones and dead muscle. An escaped, fallen angel, a musician of the stars.

"If you are such an angel," she murmured desolately, another heartbreaking sob wracking her petite form. "Or possess such an extraordinary soul," her lips trembled violently, and she clutched his dead hand with both her own. "Then may angels sing you to your rest," she whispered faintly, bringing his hand to lips and kissing it.

Meg quickly dropped his hand, unable to bear how still and immobile he was, and rapidly settled him against the settee, lying him on his back, lifting his long legs and stretching them out over the sofa.

She ran and fetched a blanket from the Louis-Phillipe room, and laid it atop of him.

And only her incredibly loud sobs and sniffles filled the gaping silence.

Weeping bitterly, she bent down and pressed a quavering, heartfelt, gentle kiss to his cheek.

_Go where I cannot fly_, she thought.

She opened her eyes and breathed against his chin, "good-bye," A shuddering breath left her lips. "I will always love you."

She gradually straightened and turned, and started to trudge halfheartedly out of the lair.

But just as she neared the Rue Scribe exit, Meg could have sworn she heard something… a faint melody, an echo… spiraling notes, wheeling with the stars.

She glanced behind, over her shoulder.

_I shall dance_, she promised. _For you._

Meg twisted her head around and gazed at the floor, the melody stinging her soul.

She smiled sadly.

And she quietly danced two short steps, kicking her feet to a noiseless rhythm.

Somewhere, someone smiled.

FIN


End file.
